


A Time Yet to Come

by sparklesmut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Creepy Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hands, Implied Sexual Content, Other, The Spiral, but like creepy hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklesmut/pseuds/sparklesmut
Summary: There was a time when they could have been. A time when things were, well not normal, but normal enough.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	A Time Yet to Come

There was a time when they could have been. A time before the deaths and the explosives and the massive, gut-wrenching sacrifices they’d had no choice in making. A time when things were, well, not normal, but normal  _ enough _ .

But that time was a time wasted on bated breath and hands too far apart. Breath that would rather be exchanged in hushed, intimate whispers and hands that would rather be tangling into hair or fingers or whatever the other readily offered. A time of tied tongues for the sake of professionalism, though a lot of good that did them in the end.

There was a time when their bodies could have melded seamlessly and authentically, sweet nothings and the scent of sweat and sex heavy in the air, instead of the now, which was too-sharp fingers tracing staticky trails across ghostly flesh, and cold, hollow laughter.

Michael and Gerry. Their names hadn’t changed, but they had. Pretending did no good, though they tried anyway, Michael pretending there was something solid underneath it, a mass to the being it kissed and kissed and kissed again. Gerry ignoring the fact that the long, stretching fingers holding his wrists above his head did nothing to restrain his incorporeal form, not really. The two twined more than was natural (there was nothing natural left in them), trapped in a false memory of a hazy dream that may have been a nightmare if one cared to squint hard enough.

A reflection of a bygone era, however distorted, the taste not as sweet as one would hope, but reminiscent. Still, mouths and hips moved in slow, pumping rhythm, a pantomime of what could have, and perhaps should have, been.


End file.
